The Wall Between

by Jesper Bugge Kold

The man rolling the dice bangs the two squashed dice cups onto the table, rises in anger, and heads for the door. The woman tries to pry apart the two dice cups. When she succeeds, the dice fall to the floor. She picks them up and looks quizzically at Andreas as she holds up the cup. He turns away.

  Another man plants himself in front of Andreas. There’s something ominous about him. His legs are spread, and his arms are covered in faded tattoos. Andreas instinctively scoots his chair back as the man leans across the table. He has no idea what the man wants. Frightened, he stares at the man’s giant hands splayed on the table. With his index finger, the man taps on the name carved into the table. A quick hand gesture indicates to Andreas that he should get up. He turns to the bartender, who shrugs and points to a vacant table. Andreas empties his glass and leaves the tavern.

  He goes from one dive to the next, letting the alcohol do its job. Slowly he feels himself going numb. He has a sniffling conversation with some girl. His compliments make him sound horny and despondent, and she walks away. A group of people in jerseys displaying a roaring polar bear drink with him. At first he thinks he’s run into a cult that worships arctic wildlife, but the jerseys appear to be sports related.

  Ice hockey fans, the bartender explains, and asks him were he’s from.

  “The Netherlands,” he replies, for some reason.

  It’s dark outside, and he has no idea where he is. The streets all look alike. The city seems different at night—strangely enticing, like a circus, a freak show, a pirate ship. Pirates, dwarves, and bearded women swarm from the ship’s hold, knives between their yellow-brown teeth. They trundle down the sidewalk, and he stumbles. He flops around as this mad world rumbles past him. A motorcycle accelerates, causing the flagstones to vibrate, but it’s not Bea.

  A jukebox brings him to his feet. It’s the same music as the one on Peter’s tapes. The woman singer.

  He sways at a new bar counter, orders a couple of shots, and immediately drains them. He maneuvers onto a stool and orders a refill. He listens to Patsy Cline’s song, “I Fall to Pieces,” and wishes he were someone else, with someone else’s thoughts and someone else’s problems.

  “Buy me a drink, young man?”

  The woman’s question reveals her age. He considers what it might be while unabashedly sizing her up. She’s probably around fifty. The low cut of her shirt pulls at him, and though every other part of her sags, her breasts still appear firm under her shirt. There’s lipstick on her teeth, and her forehead and cheeks are caked with foundation.

  “So, what’s it gonna be, love?” She leans lasciviously forward and gropes his thigh.

  When she speaks, the caked foundation shifts like continental plates and, suddenly, there’s a tectonic displacement right in front of him, an earthquake rocking her painted face. She smiles, and he feels the heat of her body, and something in his pants feels tempted. He stands and staggers to the bathroom.

  His face looks wrong in the mirror, distorted. He speaks to his reflection, but it doesn’t seem to understand. His voice is impure and hoarse. It’s not his voice but a strange, creaking sound. The alcohol has acquired its own voice. It’s the whiskey, the blue shots he doesn’t know the name of, the beers—all of it has passed through him into the urinal, and they are the voice speaking. The voice speaks of Bea, and he tells it to shut up. After he accidentally pisses on one of his pant legs, he feels pathetic and begins to cry.

  He fumbles his way back to the bar. He feels as though he’s been locked up. People are standing too close to him, much too close. They rub themselves against him, he needs to get out, get away . . .

  The woman helps him into his jacket. One arm gets stuck in the sleeve, but she’s patient. He cries as his arm keeps getting stuck; he doesn’t have any energy left, but then he’s in a taxi, and she taps the window and waves, and his head slams into the window as the taxi pulls out onto the street.

  The taxi stops. He looks for a good place to keel over, but then he recognizes the street. His feet are heavy with booze. Useless. Like an animal, he creeps across the sidewalk. The old lady’s still up. She peeks out from behind the curtain.

  His keys are gone. He’s locked out, out of luck. He paws through his pockets with the slow desperation of drunkenness. Wrinkled chestnuts, chewing gum that’s fallen out of a packet, coins, a slip of paper. It’s the woman’s phone number. Then he feels a slice of cold metal in his back pocket. He kisses the little saw-toothed blade and fumbles to insert it into the lock.

  He begins the ascent on all fours, his hands moving against the dirty linoleum, step by step. Will his legs hold him? He gives it a go. The railing holds him up. Another half floor. He falls and hits his shoulder against the railing. He expects pain but feels nothing. He’s soft, a lump of kneaded dough that takes the shape of the stairs. He might stay here, might sleep here. He doesn’t have the strength to get up. He doesn’t care. He’s comfortable. His brain is empty, freed from all thought.

  A thought flashes across his mind: he needs to get in touch with Volker Dietmaier, the doctor who received his father’s dead body. He needs to call him right away, but his cell phone seems to be missing. He crawls onward and finally reaches his door. The key doesn’t work, or maybe it’s the lock. They no longer fit together; they’ve lost their mutual justification for their existence. Now they’re just two pieces of metal in a jam. A key and a lock that prevent him from entering his home.

  He laughs stupidly: home! Home, what does that even mean? But he needs to get inside and make his phone call. He’s forgotten whom he needs to call, but it’s important. He knows that much. Is it Lisa? Maybe he still loves her.

  He sits down with his back against the door, sleeps a little. He fumbles for the door handle in order to get to his feet. Finally he clutches the handle. The door opens, and he drops into the hallway. He stares at the ceiling as it begins to spin. Or as he spins. He’s a roulette wheel. Everything spins faster and faster, and he disappears.

  33

  PETER

  East Berlin, October 1989

  “Colonel Tauber wishes to speak with you.”

  Like Sonnenberger’s office, Tauber’s was decorated with photos of trophy fish, as though all officers were members of the same fishing club. Maybe they earned their stripes based on the size of their catch, Peter thought, as Tauber’s fishes surpassed anything found in Sonnenberger’s office.

  Tauber laid the palms of his hands on the table and began to speak as he studied his hands. “Peter, you’re one of our most trusted employees,” he said, looking up. “And now I need you on the other side.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as Peter let the words sink in. Then he slowly shook his head as though he didn’t believe Tauber.

  The colonel held his gaze. “I’m serious, Peter.”

  “Why me?”

  Tauber explained how the entire web of informers had become unstable. The unrest that had swept through the country meant that Peter would have to meet, quite extraordinarily, with his own contacts in the field.

  “You’ll tell the informers that all’s well, and you’ll assure them that we haven’t forgotten them, that we’re still protecting them. You’re always one hundred percent professional. Somebody like Jan”—he gestured with his arm, exasperated—“I can’t send him over. He’ll try to screw anyone in a short skirt.” He laughed at his own remark. “We need to act fast, because this is a highly unusual situation. We’ll send Kerstin Hopp with you to make your travel look less suspicious and to create a better alibi for you. Since you’re already a couple, it’ll be easier. You know each other well, and we know you both.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Kerstin Hopp is already on board with the mission.” Tauber sighed. “These are strange times, but we have to continue our work. Without us, the entire edifice will fall apart.”

  The colonel explained the exact nature of the mission. Peter would spend the next three weeks in West Berlin, convincing his informants that the unrest was onl
y temporary and that they must continue their work without hesitation. Then he and Kerstin would come home.

  Before they left, they’d be issued new identities. They were to study up on the history, politics, culture, and traditions of West Germany, and they were to learn about everything—from the local cuisine to which team was ahead in the Bundesliga standings. In addition, they’d be taught everything about how the border patrol operated so that they’d be less nervous when confronting West German guards. These types of assignments were given only to party loyalists who displayed the proper values, character, and mental resistance.

  East Berlin, November 1989

  They walked past Friedrichstadt-Palast and across Weidendammer Bridge, the river Spree shimmering beneath them. The cast iron railing of the bridge felt cold against Peter’s hand. In the other, he held Kerstin’s hand. The closer they got to Friedrichstrasse Station, the more clammy and moist hers became. Her shoes clacked against the cobblestones with the precision of a clock.

  A glass-and-steel building appeared ahead of them. Its unofficial name was the Palace of Tears, because this was where people said their good-byes whenever they’d had a visit from relatives on the other side of the Wall, their tears dripping onto the cobblestones.

  They glanced into the huge glass lobby. The rays of the winter sun were reflected in the many windows, reminding him of the television tower. In 1969, when its construction was complete, an optical phenomenon occurred that the architect hadn’t anticipated. When the sun shone on the polygonal cupola, a glowing cross appeared. People began to speak of it as the pope’s revenge, as a form of divine retribution, because the state had required the churches to remove all crosses. In an attempt to remove the reflection, large mirrors were placed on the ground beneath the tower; another attempt involved painting over the glass. In the People’s Chamber, there was even talk of tearing the building down. Finally, a solution was devised: the reflection was to be regarded not as a cross but as a plus sign, a plus for socialism.

  Thinking of this story calmed him. He squeezed Kerstin’s hand and smiled at her as they walked past the long, unmoving line. He could tell from the way people shifted on their feet that the atmosphere in the hall was depressed. The waiting made people nervous, and though no one had any reason to be afraid, the mere presence of the border guards made them feel guilty; it showed in their lackluster faces and their sagging shoulders. Everyone inched toward the border patrol, where men examined their luggage, then nodded and sent them into another line, and more guards peered down at them from wooden booths. Behind the guards’ glass windows, there were telephones, monitors, cameras, and hats held in place solely by furrowed foreheads.

  They continued past the Palace of Tears down Friedrichstrasse, under the station where the kiosks displayed Russian fashion magazines with long-limbed models on the front pages. On the south side of the station, they went down a flight of stairs and, next to a hair salon, they found the entrance used by employees of the national train service. This was where the Ministry for State Security could send its people into West Berlin unhindered.

  An officer in a gray uniform received them. Kerstin clutched Peter’s hand. The officer gave them a brief nod, then scrutinized their papers before stamping them with a metallic clonk. They passed through a control room filled with television screens then down several corridors, and finally to another guard at another counter. The second guard studied the stamp and turned the passports ninety degrees. When he pushed a button, the lock in an electronic door buzzed, and Peter and Kerstin headed into a tile-covered tunnel and disappeared among a crowd of passengers on their way to platform B and line U6 toward Tegel.

  Massive steel walls between platforms B and C kept people from sneaking onto the train to West Berlin, and cameras positioned throughout the platforms kept an eye on everyone. Guards dressed as civilians walked among the passengers or stood beside them with feigned nonchalance, but Peter easily recognized them.

  The train was already waiting. Peter and Kerstin boarded. He heard her exhale. Neither of them had any reason to be nervous, yet he felt her anxiety. He took her hand. Through the window they watched soldiers with their guns strapped over their soldiers and German shepherds sniffing under the trains. Using mirrors attached to long metal rods, the guards inspected underneath the carriages.

  The train began to move, rattling and clanking, and they looked at each other gravely. The train slowed as it rolled past the shuttered stations. The stations looked ghostlike, and even the guards from the transportation police appeared faded in the platform’s dim light. The train slowed. They had arrived in West Berlin.

  Kerstin started beaming from the minute they got off the train. She suddenly looked like a Westerner, like she’d been a Westerner all her life. She moved with the self-assuredness of a Westerner and spoke with the arrogance of a Westerner. He noticed with pride that men on the street turned around to check her out.

  The hotel was shabby. They put their luggage in their room and asked the overweight manager who smelled of alcohol where they might find a good restaurant. When they found it, the waiter showed them to a table. Kerstin seemed ecstatic and spoke with the eager enthusiasm of a child about how they would see the entire city. How they would stroll on the Kurfürstendamm, eat chocolate at Kaufhaus des Westens, kiss in the Tiergarten. In a low voice, he reminded her of their mission. She fell silent for a moment. Then she spoke again. At first he thought she was joking; her tone had been lighthearted after all, as though wanting to gauge his reaction before sounding too committed. She blinked as though afraid her eyes would dry out.

  “Let’s stay here,” she repeated.

  “Please be serious,” Peter replied, trying to contain his shock.

  “Let’s get married and stay.” Her voice was tense.

  He tried to smile indulgently, uncertain how to respond.

  She laid her hand on his. The warmth spread from her touch. “We can travel the entire world. You and me. We can go to the United States, to a Patsy Cline concert. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Some small part of him admired her for having dared to speak so candidly, because she knew his work essentially involved suppressing those very desires in others. In fact, his first thought was that he’d have to report her, but he knew he’d never be able to.

  “I don’t want to go back.” Tears appeared in her eyes. “I’m afraid. Who knows? Maybe we’re in danger? You’ve seen the demonstrations in front of our offices; more people are joining them every day. Who knows what they’ll do? Aren’t you afraid that we’ll lose our jobs—that everything we have will be taken from us?”

  Peter shook his head. “Everything’s going to be all right!” he cried earnestly, but he was startled to discover that he had to convince himself that that was indeed the case.

  They returned to the hotel and brushed their teeth in silence, her words ricocheting through his head; once in bed, he couldn’t sleep, and he could tell she couldn’t, either. Was Kerstin more important to him than East Germany? Was he willing to betray the state for a woman? Without Kerstin his life would be meaningless; he knew he couldn’t let her go. Until this moment in this hotel room in enemy territory, their love had been the best thing that had ever happened to him, and now this. No East German could honestly say they’d never contemplated what it would be like to live in the West, but it appeared that Kerstin had let herself be seduced by it.

  The events of the last few months had frightened him too, but he didn’t want to justify Kerstin’s fears by sharing his concerns with her.

  “The shit is hitting the fan,” Pamjanov had said in his typically blunt manner the last time they’d met. “Moscow’s got a soft guy at the top, and that’ll never lead to anything good. The Central Committee shouldn’t listen to Gorbachev. He’s aligned with the West.” He’d shaken his big heavy head in resignation. “The whole structure’s going to come toppling down soon.”

  Maybe he was right. Hungary had unsealed its border to Au
stria just a couple of months earlier, and East Germans now went on “vacation” in Hungary and were pouring through the hole in the Iron Curtain. Tadeusz Mazowiecki had become the leader of the first anticommunist government in Poland in more than forty years, and anticommunist demonstrations had been taking place in the larger cities in Czechoslovakia. There were a growing number of demonstrations in Leipzig as well, and every Monday people took to the street following the weekly prayer meeting in St. Nicholas church. Unrest was spreading like the plague. Across the country, people were demanding freedom and democracy and protesting the scarcity of everyday goods and the ban against leaving the country. In Leipzig, two days after the GDR celebrated its fortieth anniversary on October 7 with grand parades on Karl Marx-Allee, some seventy thousand people took to the streets with torches and candles. The crowd had quickly ballooned to three hundred thousand, and they’d demonstrated in front of the State Security complex.

  Tauber had urged his staff to remain calm. “It’ll pass,” he assured them.

  In the middle of October, Erich Honecker had been deposed and was replaced by Egon Krenz. The unrest that had been smoldering had burst into flames on November 4, when half a million people gathered on Alexanderplatz to demand freedom, but freedom for what? No one was starving, and everyone had work and access to health care. Everyone was taken care of. Hopefully, by the time he and Kerstin returned, things would be calmer.

  Kerstin writhed in the bed beside him.

  He put one hand on her smooth cheek. “You know we have to return, don’t you?

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I know.”

  34

  ANDREAS

  Berlin, February 2007

  The toilet bowl is an echo chamber. He hears the hollow roar of his own guts. From its depths comes yet another outpouring of thin vomit. The pain is amplified, and his ears fill with the sound of puking, ringing through his entire body. His head throbs. The yellow freshener on the edge of the bowl radiates its nauseating, perfumed freshness, but it can’t cover up the stench of his own insides. He leans his head against his arm, which is draped across the toilet. If his arm slips, he’ll fall, and he’ll crash through the tiled floors, to never stop falling. His arm fails him, and he loses his grip; he whimpers as he glides down the side of the bowl. He fights to control his rolling guts. He’s lying on the floor, and the pain in his temples has reached its peak. It can’t possibly get any worse. He just needs to get through today without dying.